


I Put a Spell on You

by Elmhawthorne



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9377027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elmhawthorne/pseuds/Elmhawthorne
Summary: Gaby gets a dance lesson during the trio's latest mission in Las Vegas.





	1. Chapter 1

Las Vegas, 1964

 

“No.”

"Gaby, dear, it's merely practice. And as you so graciously pointed out, it's a topic that I have plenty of experience in."

"Not happening."

Gaby shot a frustrated glare at the source of the words, the tall brooding Russian standing in the corner of the hotel suite by the bathroom. 

"No way. I can make it up as I go, I was trained as a classical dancer, remember?"

"Key word: classical. This is new, modern stuff. If you don't know what you're doing, you're going to stick out like a sore thumb. We barely got a way in as it is."

Napoleon waved the offending object in the air, slowly as if he could somehow tantalize her. Their collective attention was focused on the skimpy burlesque dancer's outfit in Napoleon's hands, one  
feeling revulsion, another mischievous, and the other, a mixture of annoyance, protectiveness and something else he didn’t want to admit to.

Seeing Illya gradually turn from pink, to red, to purple out of the corner of her eye was the final tipping point for Gaby.

"Fine," she snapped, ripping the garments out of Napoleon's outstretched hands, "and mind you, this is not for your entertainment."

He held his hands up in mock surrender as she stalked across the room, brushing past Illya into bathroom. 

As Gaby shut the door, she let out the huge breath she had been holding since she had grabbed the outfit from Napoleon.

Not a moment later, she heard his low voice muttering menacingly at Napoleon through the door.

"You are not 'teaching' her. You are just taking advantage of her."

"Relax, Peril. She needs to know what she's doing when she goes out there. This isn't like Istanbul where she was just a waitress in that Shisha den."

Gaby clenched her hands a little tighter around the outfit when Napoleon mentioned Istanbul. Yes,  
she had worn a skimpy outfit there to blend in with the staff of waitresses and belly dancers. But the thing that colored her cheeks wasn't the lack of clothes. It was the memory of Illya's eyes burning into her for a split second before he had realized what he was doing, and spent the rest of the night looking anywhere else but where she was.

"Da. Which is why she should be doing everything she can to not be noticed."

"You seem to be forgetting the brief where Waverly said it was her job to get close to the mark. Our job is to search the place while he's being entertained. Besides, I'm not taking advantage of her, I'm giving her the benefit of an expert's eye. She's not even my type. I was sure she was much more yours."

While that last little twist of the knife was surely meant for Illya, she still felt a heavy weight drop into the pit of her stomach. She held out the hanger in front of her at arm's length, taking it all in.

"He wouldn't know his type if it grabbed him by the balls," she murmured to herself. It was Gaby's fourth mission with Cowboy and the Red Peril, and in all the time since Istanbul, since Rome even, she had only managed to steal a kiss or two from the monolith that was Illya, and not much more. He had barely given any hints of his attraction to her; a hand held a little too long, a caress of her leg when she propped it up on his lap. She was starting to get fed up. Whether it was because he wasn’t interested, or he was too shy to make a move, she was beginning to feel foolish, and her increasingly one-sided advances towards him were starting to take it's toll.

"You have no business even thinking about my 'type'. I'm not speaking any longer about this."

"The thing is Peril, you've never had to say a word about this for anyone to catch on. You're quite the open book when you want to be."

Napoleon stared Illya down over the rim of his glass, silently savoring all of the fun he was having poking the bear. Forget Gaby, even he was starting to think that this whole dancing around the subject shtick was getting a little old. Illya's fingers were drumming wildly against the armoire he was leaning on, and Napoleon could see that it took everything in him to hold in the rage that was brewing beneath the surface. 

Illya looked like he was ready to spit out venom as he pushed himself off the armoire and started barreling over Napoleon,  
"You-"

His words dropped off when the bathroom door opened suddenly revealing Gaby standing in the doorway, a bathrobe from the hotel tied tightly at her waist.

Napoleon peered out from behind the towering menace, regarding her nonchalantly.

"Ready for your lesson, Miss Teller?"

"I swear, Napoleon, if you try something funny..."

The words caught in her throat as the large bathrobe that swathed her began to fall open.

"Ah-ah," Napoleon admonished as she tried cinching the knot tighter, "if you're that modest tomorrow night, the mark isn't going to want anything to do with you, German or not."

Gaby braved a glance up at Illya, whose face was still a concerning shade of red and a large vein was starting to pulse in his throat. And oh, how she loved it.

She strategically let it hang open a little as she sauntered over to Napoleon, bending over him slowly and grabbing his tie to pull him towards her. "Is this immodest enough for you, mein Lehrer?"

They both managed a conspiratorial smirk when they heard what sounded like a cat being strangled come out of Illya. Yes, Napoleon could be a pain sometimes, and she knew exactly what  
he was doing when it came to her and Illya, but she couldn't have picked a better partner in crime. 

"You’re a quick learner."

She straightened up, pulling Napoleon's tie like a leash behind her as she walked into his bedroom suite.

Just as the door was shutting behind them, Napoleon managed to stick his head out to give Illya one last parting shot, "Now, Peril, this is a private lesson, so if you could kindly not disturb us, it would be greatly appreciated."

Illya answered him the only way he knew how; by lobbing a vase at his head, cursing when Napoleon ducked and closed the door just in time, muffling the cackle that was bursting from his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

Although it had been nearly twenty four hours after the "lesson", Illya was still seething. After he stormed out of Napoleon’s room and into his own, he had only seen them briefly at breakfast before they all parted ways to do some reconnaissance. Now, he had taken his place in the lounge, acting as a lookout for both Gaby and Napoleon.

The plan was for Gaby to keep the mark, who conveniently had a preference for German girls, detained, while, on Illya's signal, Napoleon broke into his hotel room and absconded with all of the necessary files. Cigarette smoke and cheap cologne hung heavy in the air, covering the stage with a faint haze. The music began, the sound of a woman's voice coming in faintly through the speakers

Birds flying high, you know how I feel...

Illya was hardly paying attention to the show that was starting, the velvet curtain surrounding the stage slowly ascending, revealing several sets of toned legs in high heels. His eyes were sweeping the dark, crowded room, hunting for their mark. He was sitting in the center of the lounge, at the foot of one of the platforms of the stage, amongst all of the cat calls and wolf whistles that were crescendoing to an almost deafening level, competing with the brass band that was blaring. One call pierced through the dark, the only one that was distinctly accented. Illya casually turned to the sound of the voice, waving a waitress over to refill his drink, and spotted their mark; a younger man, about his age and height, sitting in an entourage of body guards and other pretty young things.

"Gaby," he murmured, certain that she could her him in her earpiece through the din, "eleven o’ clock from the stage, private booth."

He waited for her reply, an acknowledgement, anything at all, but he was met with radio silence.  
His fingers begin to drum against the arm of his chair, and he manages to give a terse smile to the girl who had come over with a bottle of vodka, batting her eyelashes at him as she leans across his lap to fill his glass. The instant she leaves, he snaps a little, "Gaby, do you copy?"

"Oh, I copy."

Illya nearly jumped out of his skin at the closeness of her voice, both through his earpiece and inches away from his other ear. His admonishment catches in his throat as he takes her in; her lithe body bent backwards from a pole in the middle of the platform, one leg wrapped around it, the other planted firmly on the ground. She’s wearing the outfit from yesterday, her body barely covered with a burgundy set of lingerie, a few gold rhinestones glimmering in the low light, and ink black lace hugging the tops of her breasts and the hem of her panties. A sheer veil of fabric cascaded down from the back of her underwear to the floor, with golden metal disks lining the top, reminiscent of her costume back in Istanbul.

He thinks he's having a heart attack.

"You're supposed to be distracting the mark," he hissed through his teeth, his wandering eyes betraying him.

"I'm establishing my type," she said calmly, slowly pulling herself upright next to the pole.

"Type?"

"Mhmm," she hummed, "I like them tall, blonde and handsome."

She climbed down the steps at the foot of the stage, circling the chair he was sitting in and running her hands down his chest when she was standing behind him. Her lips curled at the shiver she felt run through him.  
"Well, for the mission that is."

"Cowboy put you up to this," he said, glaring a little as she came around to face him again.

Dragonflies out in the sun, you know how I feel don't you know

"Cowboy," she began, punctuating the word by throwing her leg over his shoulder, her heel digging slightly into his back as she pulled him closer, "didn't put me up to anything."

Gaby gauged his face the second before she straddled him, satisfied that she could at least see the pink blush that was starting at the tips of his ears and his cheeks.

Oh, what Napoleon would pay to see this.

Illya could barely make out the wolf whistles and jeers through the blood pounding in his ears as Gaby continued her performance, her leg still hung over his shoulder, the other was on the ground as she straddled him. He felt her thighs tighten for a second before she careened backwards into a graceful arch towards the floor.

And I'm feeling...good.

She ascended back into a sitting position, flipping her hair flirtatiously, pretending to be suddenly distracted by their cat-calling mark as she sat up. 

"Now, where did you say he was?"

"Eleven o' clock. From your position," he choked out.

Gaby raised an eyebrow. "Good to know." With that, she swung her leg off of him, arching  
it over his head as she spun the other way in his lap. Leaning back, she cupped his cheek while she whispered in his ear. "I'll see you in a few hours. And if you want a private show later, let me know."

A wink and a cheeky smile was all Illya got before she sauntered over to the mark, having forgotten all about him.

Just when he thought he was about to burst, the earpiece crackled to life.

"Peril, has she gotten to him yet? I didn't think it would take this long."

"She has definitely got him, go ahead," he ground out. He wasn't sure how much longer he could take it, his fingers were now tapping out the drums of war as he waited for Gaby to close the  
curtain around the booth, ensuring that the mark would be detained for the length of a private dance.

"You sound awfully tense, you know, this kind of of joint is the perfect place to relieve some tension. I'm sure-"

Illya cut him off at the sight of Gaby drawing the curtain around the booth, chatting flirtatiously with the mark in German, but tossing a wink his way before she disappeared from view.

"I am not tense. She has closed the curtain, just GO."

"I'm just saying, if you don't find, some sort of...outlet, I have a feeling you're going to explode."

Illya was already out the door when Napoleon finished his sentence, wondering what the repercussions were for killing a fellow agent before the mission was over.


End file.
